I had often wondered how our people had been able to bear the rack and thumbscrew of the Spanish Inquisition; but when my turn and my comrades' came for torture, I realized that the same spirit that helped our ancestors was working in us also.
Now I knew that our suffering had been useless.

Whenever the Turkish authorities wished, the horrors of the Armenian massacres would live again in Zicron-Jacob, and we should be powerless to raise a hand to protect ourselves.

As we came limping home through the streets of our village, I caught sight of my own Smith & Wesson revolver in the hands of a mere boy of fifteen--the son of a well-known Arab outlaw.

I realized then that the Turks had not only taken our weapons, but had distributed them among the natives in order to complete our humiliation.
The blood rushed to my face.

I started forward to take the revolver away from the boy, but one of the old men caught hold of my sleeve and held me back.
[ILLUSTRATION: IN A NATIVE CAFE, SAFFED/A LEMONADE-SELLER OF DAMASCUS].